Jun. 7th, 2008 03:45 pm
The Quest for the Holy Grail, 7/8
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lovely_ambitionTitle: The Quest for the Holy Grail 7/8
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain, others to come
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Years have passed, but circumstances have changed and it's time to bring everyone back for one more heist.
Notes: This is, indeed, a sequel to Modern Day Legends. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bwc_baby for the lookover and to melloniel for the constant support.
24.
“Gareth, we’re in the main chamber trying to get into the room,” Gawain reported into the radio as he tapped at it, sighing and waiting for the response while Galahad set about marking the floor in the event that the lasers went back on at any point in time. How it had come to the two of them to infiltrate the main chamber had been a simple ‘you’re the youngest’ and when Gawain had asked how that could possibly have mattered, he’d just gotten a look from Lancelot.
They were so close and Gawain was itching to be done with it. Thievery wasn’t usually his main skill and when he was back to the main business of killing for hire, he would be much happier. It was all so much simpler.
“Gawain…” came the worried voice over the radio while the two men suited themselves with gloves and caps so as to not leave any DNA.
Gawain was wandering forward, getting the worst of a suspicious niggling at the back of his neck and he couldn’t help but wonder how Gareth had managed to get through the passcodes so quickly. His brother was smart, granted, but not like this. Galahad was three feet away from him and they were so close to the case and each and every alarm had been shut down. Galahad was fumbling with the radio to yank it out and bite out to Gareth that he should just ‘say it already’ when he dropped it.
He went sprawling to the floor for it.
When he looked up, there was nothing but red flashes in his vision.
“Gawain,” Galahad spoke, tense and tight, and not moving an inch where he was in a push-up against the floor, stomach between two lasers. Gawain himself was pressed up against a wall and the radio was where none of them could get to it to talk.
“Shit, there was a delay,” Gareth’s voice came crackling out of the radio. “There’s a failsafe, as soon as I cracked the code, it was like it was waiting for me to do that because now it’s reverted into a second set of alarms.”
“Can you crack it!?” Galahad shouted from his stuck position even though Gareth couldn’t possibly have heard him, seeing as the radio was out of each of their reach. The muscles in his stomach began to quiver and he knew he had to move soon.
“Okay. Okay, I think I can break this, give me two minutes. There are fingerprints all over this by police, not the museum. Someone with the codename GW has been in the system doing this.”
“Galahad,” Gawain asked warily. “Can you hold that position for two minutes?” he asked, over Gareth’s panicky words.
“No,” Galahad exhaled a short puff of air, trying not to let anything breeze past the extremely delicate sensors of the lasers. “Shit, Gawain, why would there be a second alarm in place? No one knew we were doing this. How could the police know?”
Gawain had closed his eyes, head pressed against the wall as he tried to recall the whole process that had gotten them to where they were, from the library to Arthur’s arrest and the voice that had been so familiar in those stalls. It came hurtling back to him with clarity, with that gut-punching epiphany that took all the life out of him. “GW. Fuck. Fuck! Guinevere,” he exhaled. “That was her at the library when we were in the stalls.”
“She couldn’t have known we…”
“She’s setting us up,” Gawain growled. “That’s her code in the system, she wants us red-handed. Think of what Arthur said, think of what she’s done to us, what we’ve done to her over the years.”
“Bloody vendetta,” Galahad muttered as he slowly, slowly slid into a side-split, ducking his head carefully under one of the lasers. Gawain opened his eyes and watched worriedly as he ducked, as his thighs trembled but he managed to avoid setting anything off. This had to be it. She was expecting them to set up an alarm and come charging in.
That also meant that she was probably there, just outside.
“We need to get to that radio,” Gawain said grimly.
Galahad was slowly avoiding lasers gracefully – bending a knee here and there, pointing the tips of his toes, arching his back, and with enough slow precision, he made it to the radio.
“Gareth,” Galahad exhaled, tensely. “We’re okay, but we really need you to fix that code before Tristan gets here.” He was due any moment and if he opened a door unknowingly with the alarm system on, all of this was going to go up in flames. The Grail was in the middle of the room, just waiting for them and they were so close. They were so close and yet so far.
“Got it!” Gareth announced with gleeful delight and almost simultaneously, all the lasers in the room deactivated.
Neither Gawain nor Galahad moved just yet.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Galahad demanded into the radio, sweat rolling down his forehead as he panted. “Are you sure we can move?”
“Sure,” Gareth confirmed.
That was enough for both of them. They hurried to the Grail as fast as they could possibly manage and even though Galahad complained about his muscles, Gawain ignored him the whole of the time. Now that there had been a slip-up in the plan and they had to alert Lancelot and Arthur about Guinevere’s involvement, they were each of them a lot more on edge than before. Gawain grappled for the radio and switched the frequency when the gunshot rang loud and clear in the confined space of the room of treasures.
Gawain clasped his arm and let out a pained scream as he fell to the ground and before he could locate the shooter, he saw Galahad stagger back, shoulder hit. The first thought Gawain had was mundane and so business-oriented that he had to take a moment to be amazed at how well Arthur had engrained that way of life into them. He’d just thought, well, shit, blood everywhere. Then he realised that Galahad had been shot. He clambered over across the room with radio in hand as he grimaced and shoved a hand against Galahad’s wound, even if he was bleeding harder.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Gawain murmured, eyes searching the room wildly to find Tristan towering over the both of them, his long shadow cast across the floor in a sinister fashion that made Gawain want to grab his gun and shoot him. Those thoughts were instantly derailed, though, when he realised that Tristan had the advantage of perfect health and whatever deranged mental status he’d slipped into. They stared at each other, Gawain and Tristan, for some time, before Tristan turned and began to cut through the glass to nab the Holy Grail and Gawain had to contend with his gunshot wound, not to mention Galahad’s.
“Fuck,” Galahad was swearing and cursing under his breath again and again with constancy. “Fuck, fuck…Gawain, radio,” he hissed.
Gawain lunged for the radio and switched to the other line, all the while watching Tristan warily. He switched to the right channel and got ready to speak…
25.
Lancelot was all-too-happy to be some distance from Tristan as they went about their work. His cheek was an angry purple that spoke of how much he was glad to be so far. The periphery inside the museum was important and Lancelot had assigned himself and Arthur to it, knowing that not only did it keep people out, but it also kept people in and with two of them, they withstood a chance against Tristan.
The hiss of their radio caught Lancelot’s attention. It had been turned off until just recently to avoid people in the alleyway outside overhearing anything and calling the police about suspicious behaviour.
“We’ve got trouble,” Gawain was announced darkly over the secure line.
Lancelot watched warily as Arthur picked up the communication device and stalked into a corner to reply. “What kind of trouble?”
“I think we were set up.”
“What?” Lancelot hissed, sure that he’d heard wrong. Either that or Lancelot was going to give in to the erratic breathing patterns he had begun to feel the moment he’d heard Gawain say the word ‘trouble’. “How?” he demanded, storming over to Arthur, who looked the picture of patience.
He never did understand how the man did it.
“It’s not like it’s supposed to be. Or, it is. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. We discovered a…ow, fuck’s sake, Galahad, hurry it up, we found a bit of a trap in the alarm code, but Gareth pushed through it.”
Lancelot met Arthur’s gaze over the radio and in addition to the erratic breathing, Lancelot felt his heart plummet down into his stomach.
He yanked the radio from Arthur’s hands. “Gawain, what is going on there?” he demanded.
“He got shot,” Galahad’s voice came back over the radio. “Tristan shot him and we think that bitch Guinevere set us up. Her codes and passwords are all over the change in security,” he snarled and Lancelot could hear the sneer over the comm.
“We think she’s here,” Gawain tiredly added from the other end. “And I wasn’t the only one shot.”
Lancelot was trying to process all the information he had been given. Tristan had been a liability, but Guinevere?
“Arthur?” Lancelot muttered under his breath.
“I’ll send Dagonet and Bors inside, Lancelot and I will check the perimeter to see if she’s here,” he announced, giving Lancelot a firm nod. “Gareth, Isolde. Hold down the fort at the security station outside. Dag, Bors. You heard me.”
With that, the radios were turned off and Lancelot and Arthur were sprinting down the pristine hallways to search for her.
“You think she’ll really be alone?” Lancelot asked dubiously, barely winded from the exercise.
“This isn’t about justice,” Arthur retorted. “This is about us. She wants us put away. Sense doesn’t factor into this equation. If she does find Gareth and Isolde though…”
Lancelot didn’t have to ask to know. Two of theirs who probably couldn’t hold their own against Guinevere – not that Lancelot would ever in his entire life repeat that to Isolde.
“Arthur, there,” Lancelot spat out, sighting the flash of her hair from behind as he skidded around a corner and drew one of his guns, firing immediately in order to counteract the fact that she had pulled her gun on him first.
In the time it took for Lancelot to fire, she had turned tail and began to run.
Arthur was closing the distance though. It wouldn’t be long. She descended the stairs from the second floor to the main entrance, but Arthur’s strides were long and Lancelot let him take the lead, ready to fire again if necessary.
It was in the main foyer that he caught up to her before she could get to Gareth and Isolde at the security centre and he didn’t hesitate to elbow her in the jaw, even if she was a woman. It was critical that they did this without the police showing up, or else everything that Arthur had fought for over so many years was ruined in the blink of an eye. Her gun went sliding across the marble floor as out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Lancelot trying to get down from the second floor to provide him some backup.
Guinevere held her cheek, glaring at him as she reached for her ankle, where she no doubt was keeping another gun. Arthur grasped her by the upper arms and dragged her to the side of the room, pushing her up against an ornamental decorative display from some Scottish clan, swords clattering to the ground as she leaned forward and headbutted Arthur, sending him stumbling to the ground, grasping one of the swords in the process.
They both were panting for air and Lancelot was shouting something about being there soon.
Arthur rested on one knee, watching as Guinevere caught her breath, but before she could do anything else, he raised the point of the sword and kept it trained on her, slowly rising to his feet, the broadsword heavy in his hands.
“Oh, honestly,” she gasped, her voice deep and hoarse, as though they’d gone the last two rounds in bed rather than in the foyer of a museum. “What are you going to do? Cut me into little ribbons? Propose ‘en guarde’ and away we go?”
That, to Arthur, sounded like an invitation. “En guarde.” He lunged with his attack, keeping his swings in the wrist and the forearm and she rolled to the ground to pick up the other sword, somersaulting and gracefully moving to her feet before whirling and defending herself, the swords clanging together heavily.
Arthur pushed forward and she didn’t give a single inch and their eyes met over the dull metal of the swords, glistening slightly in the moonlight that poured in through the skylight.
“You’re caught this time,” Guinevere muttered, as she pivoted and jabbed, which Arthur lunged back from. “All of you.”
“And you,” Arthur countered, going on the attack with broad strokes, swinging the sword like they were simply training. “Obsessed with the case. Planting a trail of evidence and disobeying protocol.”
“What do you know about protocol!” she replied, sounding wild. “You’re a criminal!”
“No,” Arthur muttered. “I’m a businessman,” he said and that was when he saw Lancelot, gun in the air, pointed to the ceiling. Guinevere saw it too, because she froze in mid-swing, giving Arthur the opportunity to tackle her to the ground as the bullet pierced through the skylight and sent the glass showering down.
Everything seemed to slow to a perfect crawl as Arthur tackled Guinevere to the floor, ducking his head to avoid the glass and Lancelot did the same, sitting patiently and waiting, just waiting for the sounds of the glass splintering on the floor to stop. The cacophony of disaster didn’t turn on the security system, though, and Arthur and Lancelot both exhaled in relief.
Gareth had done a good job.
“Arthur,” Lancelot spoke urgently. “We’re running out of time.”
Arthur reached for the handcuffs dangling from the back of Guinevere’s jacket and grasped them, straddling her waist to keep her on the ground and to keep himself out of a dangerous place in which her knee might just find anything. “Her legs,” he instructed. “Get them tied.’
Lancelot grasped some of the nylon rope that they used for jobs like these, binding her legs as Arthur took her cuffed wrist and attached her to the radiator. “Are we going to need a gag, Lady?” he asked, very politely.
She bucked and let out a fierce scream, one that echoed upwards and into the night sky. Lancelot held over a rag, slightly damp. “Here you are,” he offered. Arthur took it into hand and lightly gagged her, the substance on the rag a mild forgetting agent that Tristan had been perfecting. Arthur hated it, honestly, because it had no morals, but Lancelot was always quick to remind him of their job.
Lancelot waved at Guinevere as he rose to his feet and grabbed Arthur by the hand, giving him a shove along.
Everything stopped when they heard another gunshot.
Arthur and Lancelot both froze in place and even Guinevere seemed to stop struggling. That had come from deep inside the museum, where Galahad, Gawain, and Tristan were supposed to be procuring the Grail.
Arthur caught Lancelot’s gaze and wondered about Tristan, wondered if he had made the wrong call on letting him help. “Run,” he advised, before the both of them took off at top speed through the narrow halls of the museum’s labyrinth-like layout to get back to the Grail itself.
26.
It didn’t take long for Lancelot and Arthur to find their way down the halls, but it was long enough that Tristan had shut down the doors that prevented Dagonet and Bors from finding their way inside, which made the fight a lot more even; if you could consider four against one even, in any way.
Lancelot rounded the corner with alarming speed and skidded to a stop when he saw Tristan holding the Grail in his hand, a gun in the other pointed directly at Galahad’s heart.
“Shit,” Lancelot hissed as he heard Arthur catch up behind him.
Galahad and Gawain both looked to be in poor shape, which was easily seen from even a casual glance their way. Gawain was pressing one hand to Galahad’s shoulder, but the shot had only been a graze. The lion’s share of the blood was coming from Gawain himself, who had been shot in the arm.
It didn’t take a genius for Lancelot to understand that both of those bullets had come from Tristan’s gun and now he had the item they needed and Guinevere was back in the lobby.
“Tristan,” Lancelot growled and no curse seemed good enough for the bile and hatred he wanted to spit forth at this. He settled for the simplest. “You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?”
“I had to get it somehow,” Tristan pointed out. “If that meant borrowing upon your trust…”
“Arthur,” Galahad spat out, all the while keeping an unsteady gun pointed at Tristan. “Can I shoot him?”
“No.”
“You’ve gone insane!” Lancelot accused, the words whipping past his lips with ease now, as if they couldn’t stay quiet. “Perhaps there are three ways for a Knight to go out. Jail, death, or Tristan’s way of insanity!” he snapped, stepping forward, but stopped by the way Tristan so calmly lifted his gun and moved it from Galahad’s heart to Lancelot’s head.
And he wouldn’t miss this time. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate in pulling the trigger.
Lancelot knew that the only thing stopping him from shooting was the fact that he would never get out alive, that Galahad, Gawain, and Arthur (his Arthur) would stop that from ever happening. There were pieces of ceiling drifting down and Lancelot surmised that the third gunshot of the evening from Tristan’s gun had been aimed skywards in an effort to…well, who knew? An attempt to get Galahad to keep quiet, a threat of further violence? Lancelot wasn’t feeling in the mood, really, to be dissecting a madman’s brain. After all, that madman just happened to have a gun pointed in his direction. A thing like that could persuade a man to skip over all the niceties and get straight to the point.
“Tristan,” Arthur spoke quietly, inching to the right slightly, hands in the air and away from his gun. “Let’s talk. There’s absolutely no reason we can’t be civil.”
“He has a gun pointed at Lancelot,” Galahad spat out the words with vitriol as he shoved his mask against Gawain’s wound a little harder, scrabbling to keep as much of it off the floor as possible. With Guinevere so close, Dagonet wouldn’t have much time to clean the place, even if they had all the equipment. If she got loose…
Lancelot didn’t even want to think of that.
“Clearly, none of us see the obvious solution,” Arthur continued to speak, as though Galahad had never said a word.
“The obvious?” Tristan echoed. “The pup pumped me full of tranquilizers and you kept me tied up and now you want to talk,” he said, words thick and low. “Forgive me, Arthur, but my tongue isn’t very loose today. You see, I don’t trust any of you the same as you don’t trust me.”
“There is no reason for that,” Arthur nearly snapped, but coming from him it still sounded as calm as still-waters. “Think, Tristan, think logically. You need it for a ritual and we need it to be sold and provided we do this quickly enough, we can both achieve what we want.”
Now Lancelot was looking at Arthur as though he was the one who’d lost his mind. He could have hissed a dozen things about the value of the piece or the way the police were going to descend on them in an instant flat, considering Guinevere knew it was them and if they found the Grail in Tristan’s possession, that meant game over and that meant many more nights in jail cells. Arthur had to know what he was doing, he wouldn’t just turn them over like that.
And so, Lancelot had faith.
Tristan seemed to be at least listening and he seemed to even be considering Arthur’s words. “How long would I have?”
“Twelve hours to perform your rituals. We’d sell it on the market in the morning,” Arthur negotiated, stepping between Tristan’s gun and Lancelot. “Put that down while we talk, it’s not civil,” he directed.
Instead of doing that, Tristan just shifted the gun to press to Arthur’s temple, whirling him so that he was in a position reminiscent of most hostage situations and just the sight of it made Lancelot’s blood boil to the point that it was a miracle that he hadn’t blown Tristan’s brains out at that point. He took deep, deep breaths. Arthur had a look on his face that Lancelot knew well; knew more than well.
It was the I have a plan look and Lancelot took solace in the fact that Arthur really did have a plan or was lying to comfort the others. Either way, it gave Lancelot the patience to not commit a murder of one of his employees. To their side, Gawain was digging out the fake piece with shaking hands. “One of you, replace the thing,” he directed. “We’ll get blood all over it.”
Lancelot didn’t move. Neither did Tristan. Arthur was incapable of it for the time being and it took another fifteen seconds for Tristan to gesture at Lancelot with the gun. “You do it,” he ordered and it was in those fifteen seconds that everything changed. No sooner were those words out of his mouth, but Arthur had knocked the gun out and had ducked, plunging a fist into Tristan’s thigh.
Tristan staggered backwards and all four men knew that he was armed with knives, further guns, other weapons he could have used against them.
But he just stared at them.
And then he passed out on the floor.
“Did you hit a pressure point I don’t know about?” Lancelot asked Arthur while replacing the Grail precisely the way it should be – it was done by the very best of forgers they could find in London and would at least buy them some time while they got the true Grail off to their buyer.
Arthur opened his palm to reveal a very small syrette that, from the label, appeared to be one of Tristan’s own concoctions.
“I know that,” Galahad spoke up, getting to his feet with a mild amount of trouble. “It’s a variation on Dagonet’s Compound. Five times as powerful, meant for very large men…”
“Or very problematic situations,” Arthur finished his sentence, looking over his shoulder to Tristan on the floor. “Get him tied up, get Gareth to open the doors, and tell Dagonet to clean up this mess,” he directed. “You two,” he said to Gawain and Galahad. “Straight back to Headquarters to get cleaned up and Lancelot and I will take the Grail to be sold straightaway.”
With something as simple as a nod, all of them went about fulfilling their orders and Lancelot didn’t even mind that Arthur was encroaching on his territory and giving the orders. That was mostly because Lancelot was still replaying the last five minutes in his mind.
He had the Grail tucked away and they were hurrying out the back way when he thought it prudent to ask. “You never intended to actually make a deal with him, right?” he asked, unsure of what had been going through Arthur’s mind at that moment.
“We needed time. I bought it for us.”
The relief in Lancelot flooded his face and as he loaded the bag containing the Grail into the car, he felt a kiss against his neck and turned to see Arthur just standing there as he wound his arms around Lancelot’s hips. “What?” Lancelot asked.
“I love you,” Arthur said, very seriously. “For having faith in me. And for not shooting.”
“I love you for staying alive,” Lancelot said pointedly. “Don’t worry me like that, I’m getting precariously close to being in risk of heart attacks, you know.”
Arthur just chuckled as he got in the car and they began their three hour drive to the pre-arranged meeting place at a small little diner in some tiny town that was known for absolutely nothing at all.
27.
The sun had risen and the day had begun as though nothing had changed in the world.
The television at the headquarters was on as reporters talked in worried tones regarding the stolen Grail. There had been various detectives to speak about the possibility of suspects, but not a one of those officers was Guinevere herself, which oddly brought about something of a sick calm, as if ignoring the storm meant it would dissipate. While most of the Knights enjoyed the quiet thrill that came with getting ahead of the law, they all equally knew that having such a bitter enemy was a disaster in the making.
Isolde had been sent home after Dagonet promised that she could do nothing for Tristan. She hadn’t left before swearing at Tristan in Gaelic, slapping him until she was crying and spitting out curses, her fists balling up and the slaps became punches.
No one stopped her. It wasn’t even that they were afraid of what she might do to them (which was a constant worry), it was that each of the Knights thought that Tristan had it coming.
Gareth had taken Galahad and Gawain back to their apartment. They were all patched up and would need no hospital stay, according to the message that Gareth had left on the machine that morning. Gareth sounded shaken, as if he still was in disbelief about what he had done the night before (which had been good work, even Galahad had admitted that).
Bors had the task of finding their buyer and making sure the deal had gone swiftly, seeing as he’d been one of Bors’ own contacts and Lancelot believed in smooth customer relations, if nothing else. He’d insisted on keeping it close to home, seeing as the cause was close to the heart. Lancelot and Arthur had returned from the trade and they had all taken necessary precautions to sever ties between them and the heist, which involved destroying most of the expensive equipment they had used. The very last thing they needed was something to go awry in the final stages of the plan.
That left Dagonet.
Tristan had been secured in the training room with thick ropes and other than Isolde, no one had even attempted to look at him, nor dare to speak a word to his face. Dagonet thought it might have something to do with the fact that they might simply let loose with a gun while the anger still ran so high.
Dagonet found it difficult to be angry any longer. He had felt his fury ebb out of him in his younger days and now found patience a better tactic than rage. Now, with Tristan so volatile, it seemed that he was the only one who was counted on to take care of him. ‘Dispose of him’ had been Lancelot’s exact words, but Dagonet had other plans in mind.
They mostly had to do with vengeance, which he was sure that Tristan would appreciate.
He had been drugged continuously to maintain the dosage that Arthur had given him back in the room at the museum and Dagonet had personally monitored his levels, allowing him to taper off the dose and come around by the time early morning had faded away and the day was upon them.
There was something like icy rage in Tristan’s eyes, but Dagonet couldn’t be scared any longer by the evil that lived in all of them. He had seen the best and worst of people and still believed that they fluctuated between the poles on a daily basis. Tristan would return from that anger, he believed. It would just take time.
“It’s gone, isn’t it.” Tristan’s words were slow and sure, despondent and furious all at once.
“Your chance, Tristan, has been gone more years than you think,” Dagonet agreed, dragging a chair over and sitting opposite of the violent man. He refused to untie him and had kept him on a very low dosage of drugs to render his senses just the slightest bit blurry. After all, they had to take every precaution in these crucial after-hours of the robbery. “Why Dinidan?”
“I loved him.”
“You love Isolde,” Dagonet countered. “You love me. Why Dinidan?”
There was no answer.
Dagonet already knew the answer, but had been hoping Tristan might acknowledge why it was. He had hoped that Tristan would be aware of the reasons, but instead, they sat in the thickness of an awkward silence for many, many minutes.
“They’re asking you to be taken care of,” Dagonet informed Tristan. “You’ll be released from duty as soon as you’re deemed fit enough to be untied. You’ll be staying with me, the arrangements have already been made. I’m taking time away from Bors and Vanora while they go through the treatments.” This was the most Dagonet had spoken in years and that fact wasn’t lost on Tristan, who stared at Dagonet and seemed to be hanging upon his every word. “There are things to be done. But first, why Dinidan?”
“I was a different man back then,” Tristan finally answered.
“I know.”
“I was a better man.”
That was met by a heavy nod from Dagonet – a nod of agreement. Dagonet had never felt the need to lie to his friends, even when the truth was blunt and harsh by the light of day. He could not find the sense in lying to make Tristan feel better and so, he simply didn’t. “There are things to be done,” he spoke quietly, but with enough import to the words that Tristan could understand that Dagonet didn’t simply mean that had to talk or find new items.
There was a task to be done.
“Can you be counted on to work?” Dagonet asked, his palm hovering over the ropes that bound Tristan thickly. His other hand was concealed behind his back and he refused to show it to Tristan. Not yet.
“Probably not.”
“I thought as much,” Dagonet admitted and using the syringe in his concealed hand, he jabbed it and applied slight pressure to allow the liquid within (an extremely strong tranquilizer) to flood through Tristan’s system, rendering him unconscious once more. “It’s why I took precautions.”
Only when Tristan was fully unconscious did Dagonet begin to untie every last thick rope binding him down.
“We have work to do,” Dagonet murmured and carried Tristan in the direction of the parking lot and the waiting car.
tbc
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain, others to come
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Years have passed, but circumstances have changed and it's time to bring everyone back for one more heist.
Notes: This is, indeed, a sequel to Modern Day Legends. Thanks to
bwc_baby for the lookover and to melloniel for the constant support.24.
“Gareth, we’re in the main chamber trying to get into the room,” Gawain reported into the radio as he tapped at it, sighing and waiting for the response while Galahad set about marking the floor in the event that the lasers went back on at any point in time. How it had come to the two of them to infiltrate the main chamber had been a simple ‘you’re the youngest’ and when Gawain had asked how that could possibly have mattered, he’d just gotten a look from Lancelot.
They were so close and Gawain was itching to be done with it. Thievery wasn’t usually his main skill and when he was back to the main business of killing for hire, he would be much happier. It was all so much simpler.
“Gawain…” came the worried voice over the radio while the two men suited themselves with gloves and caps so as to not leave any DNA.
Gawain was wandering forward, getting the worst of a suspicious niggling at the back of his neck and he couldn’t help but wonder how Gareth had managed to get through the passcodes so quickly. His brother was smart, granted, but not like this. Galahad was three feet away from him and they were so close to the case and each and every alarm had been shut down. Galahad was fumbling with the radio to yank it out and bite out to Gareth that he should just ‘say it already’ when he dropped it.
He went sprawling to the floor for it.
When he looked up, there was nothing but red flashes in his vision.
“Gawain,” Galahad spoke, tense and tight, and not moving an inch where he was in a push-up against the floor, stomach between two lasers. Gawain himself was pressed up against a wall and the radio was where none of them could get to it to talk.
“Shit, there was a delay,” Gareth’s voice came crackling out of the radio. “There’s a failsafe, as soon as I cracked the code, it was like it was waiting for me to do that because now it’s reverted into a second set of alarms.”
“Can you crack it!?” Galahad shouted from his stuck position even though Gareth couldn’t possibly have heard him, seeing as the radio was out of each of their reach. The muscles in his stomach began to quiver and he knew he had to move soon.
“Okay. Okay, I think I can break this, give me two minutes. There are fingerprints all over this by police, not the museum. Someone with the codename GW has been in the system doing this.”
“Galahad,” Gawain asked warily. “Can you hold that position for two minutes?” he asked, over Gareth’s panicky words.
“No,” Galahad exhaled a short puff of air, trying not to let anything breeze past the extremely delicate sensors of the lasers. “Shit, Gawain, why would there be a second alarm in place? No one knew we were doing this. How could the police know?”
Gawain had closed his eyes, head pressed against the wall as he tried to recall the whole process that had gotten them to where they were, from the library to Arthur’s arrest and the voice that had been so familiar in those stalls. It came hurtling back to him with clarity, with that gut-punching epiphany that took all the life out of him. “GW. Fuck. Fuck! Guinevere,” he exhaled. “That was her at the library when we were in the stalls.”
“She couldn’t have known we…”
“She’s setting us up,” Gawain growled. “That’s her code in the system, she wants us red-handed. Think of what Arthur said, think of what she’s done to us, what we’ve done to her over the years.”
“Bloody vendetta,” Galahad muttered as he slowly, slowly slid into a side-split, ducking his head carefully under one of the lasers. Gawain opened his eyes and watched worriedly as he ducked, as his thighs trembled but he managed to avoid setting anything off. This had to be it. She was expecting them to set up an alarm and come charging in.
That also meant that she was probably there, just outside.
“We need to get to that radio,” Gawain said grimly.
Galahad was slowly avoiding lasers gracefully – bending a knee here and there, pointing the tips of his toes, arching his back, and with enough slow precision, he made it to the radio.
“Gareth,” Galahad exhaled, tensely. “We’re okay, but we really need you to fix that code before Tristan gets here.” He was due any moment and if he opened a door unknowingly with the alarm system on, all of this was going to go up in flames. The Grail was in the middle of the room, just waiting for them and they were so close. They were so close and yet so far.
“Got it!” Gareth announced with gleeful delight and almost simultaneously, all the lasers in the room deactivated.
Neither Gawain nor Galahad moved just yet.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Galahad demanded into the radio, sweat rolling down his forehead as he panted. “Are you sure we can move?”
“Sure,” Gareth confirmed.
That was enough for both of them. They hurried to the Grail as fast as they could possibly manage and even though Galahad complained about his muscles, Gawain ignored him the whole of the time. Now that there had been a slip-up in the plan and they had to alert Lancelot and Arthur about Guinevere’s involvement, they were each of them a lot more on edge than before. Gawain grappled for the radio and switched the frequency when the gunshot rang loud and clear in the confined space of the room of treasures.
Gawain clasped his arm and let out a pained scream as he fell to the ground and before he could locate the shooter, he saw Galahad stagger back, shoulder hit. The first thought Gawain had was mundane and so business-oriented that he had to take a moment to be amazed at how well Arthur had engrained that way of life into them. He’d just thought, well, shit, blood everywhere. Then he realised that Galahad had been shot. He clambered over across the room with radio in hand as he grimaced and shoved a hand against Galahad’s wound, even if he was bleeding harder.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Gawain murmured, eyes searching the room wildly to find Tristan towering over the both of them, his long shadow cast across the floor in a sinister fashion that made Gawain want to grab his gun and shoot him. Those thoughts were instantly derailed, though, when he realised that Tristan had the advantage of perfect health and whatever deranged mental status he’d slipped into. They stared at each other, Gawain and Tristan, for some time, before Tristan turned and began to cut through the glass to nab the Holy Grail and Gawain had to contend with his gunshot wound, not to mention Galahad’s.
“Fuck,” Galahad was swearing and cursing under his breath again and again with constancy. “Fuck, fuck…Gawain, radio,” he hissed.
Gawain lunged for the radio and switched to the other line, all the while watching Tristan warily. He switched to the right channel and got ready to speak…
25.
Lancelot was all-too-happy to be some distance from Tristan as they went about their work. His cheek was an angry purple that spoke of how much he was glad to be so far. The periphery inside the museum was important and Lancelot had assigned himself and Arthur to it, knowing that not only did it keep people out, but it also kept people in and with two of them, they withstood a chance against Tristan.
The hiss of their radio caught Lancelot’s attention. It had been turned off until just recently to avoid people in the alleyway outside overhearing anything and calling the police about suspicious behaviour.
“We’ve got trouble,” Gawain was announced darkly over the secure line.
Lancelot watched warily as Arthur picked up the communication device and stalked into a corner to reply. “What kind of trouble?”
“I think we were set up.”
“What?” Lancelot hissed, sure that he’d heard wrong. Either that or Lancelot was going to give in to the erratic breathing patterns he had begun to feel the moment he’d heard Gawain say the word ‘trouble’. “How?” he demanded, storming over to Arthur, who looked the picture of patience.
He never did understand how the man did it.
“It’s not like it’s supposed to be. Or, it is. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. We discovered a…ow, fuck’s sake, Galahad, hurry it up, we found a bit of a trap in the alarm code, but Gareth pushed through it.”
Lancelot met Arthur’s gaze over the radio and in addition to the erratic breathing, Lancelot felt his heart plummet down into his stomach.
He yanked the radio from Arthur’s hands. “Gawain, what is going on there?” he demanded.
“He got shot,” Galahad’s voice came back over the radio. “Tristan shot him and we think that bitch Guinevere set us up. Her codes and passwords are all over the change in security,” he snarled and Lancelot could hear the sneer over the comm.
“We think she’s here,” Gawain tiredly added from the other end. “And I wasn’t the only one shot.”
Lancelot was trying to process all the information he had been given. Tristan had been a liability, but Guinevere?
“Arthur?” Lancelot muttered under his breath.
“I’ll send Dagonet and Bors inside, Lancelot and I will check the perimeter to see if she’s here,” he announced, giving Lancelot a firm nod. “Gareth, Isolde. Hold down the fort at the security station outside. Dag, Bors. You heard me.”
With that, the radios were turned off and Lancelot and Arthur were sprinting down the pristine hallways to search for her.
“You think she’ll really be alone?” Lancelot asked dubiously, barely winded from the exercise.
“This isn’t about justice,” Arthur retorted. “This is about us. She wants us put away. Sense doesn’t factor into this equation. If she does find Gareth and Isolde though…”
Lancelot didn’t have to ask to know. Two of theirs who probably couldn’t hold their own against Guinevere – not that Lancelot would ever in his entire life repeat that to Isolde.
“Arthur, there,” Lancelot spat out, sighting the flash of her hair from behind as he skidded around a corner and drew one of his guns, firing immediately in order to counteract the fact that she had pulled her gun on him first.
In the time it took for Lancelot to fire, she had turned tail and began to run.
Arthur was closing the distance though. It wouldn’t be long. She descended the stairs from the second floor to the main entrance, but Arthur’s strides were long and Lancelot let him take the lead, ready to fire again if necessary.
It was in the main foyer that he caught up to her before she could get to Gareth and Isolde at the security centre and he didn’t hesitate to elbow her in the jaw, even if she was a woman. It was critical that they did this without the police showing up, or else everything that Arthur had fought for over so many years was ruined in the blink of an eye. Her gun went sliding across the marble floor as out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Lancelot trying to get down from the second floor to provide him some backup.
Guinevere held her cheek, glaring at him as she reached for her ankle, where she no doubt was keeping another gun. Arthur grasped her by the upper arms and dragged her to the side of the room, pushing her up against an ornamental decorative display from some Scottish clan, swords clattering to the ground as she leaned forward and headbutted Arthur, sending him stumbling to the ground, grasping one of the swords in the process.
They both were panting for air and Lancelot was shouting something about being there soon.
Arthur rested on one knee, watching as Guinevere caught her breath, but before she could do anything else, he raised the point of the sword and kept it trained on her, slowly rising to his feet, the broadsword heavy in his hands.
“Oh, honestly,” she gasped, her voice deep and hoarse, as though they’d gone the last two rounds in bed rather than in the foyer of a museum. “What are you going to do? Cut me into little ribbons? Propose ‘en guarde’ and away we go?”
That, to Arthur, sounded like an invitation. “En guarde.” He lunged with his attack, keeping his swings in the wrist and the forearm and she rolled to the ground to pick up the other sword, somersaulting and gracefully moving to her feet before whirling and defending herself, the swords clanging together heavily.
Arthur pushed forward and she didn’t give a single inch and their eyes met over the dull metal of the swords, glistening slightly in the moonlight that poured in through the skylight.
“You’re caught this time,” Guinevere muttered, as she pivoted and jabbed, which Arthur lunged back from. “All of you.”
“And you,” Arthur countered, going on the attack with broad strokes, swinging the sword like they were simply training. “Obsessed with the case. Planting a trail of evidence and disobeying protocol.”
“What do you know about protocol!” she replied, sounding wild. “You’re a criminal!”
“No,” Arthur muttered. “I’m a businessman,” he said and that was when he saw Lancelot, gun in the air, pointed to the ceiling. Guinevere saw it too, because she froze in mid-swing, giving Arthur the opportunity to tackle her to the ground as the bullet pierced through the skylight and sent the glass showering down.
Everything seemed to slow to a perfect crawl as Arthur tackled Guinevere to the floor, ducking his head to avoid the glass and Lancelot did the same, sitting patiently and waiting, just waiting for the sounds of the glass splintering on the floor to stop. The cacophony of disaster didn’t turn on the security system, though, and Arthur and Lancelot both exhaled in relief.
Gareth had done a good job.
“Arthur,” Lancelot spoke urgently. “We’re running out of time.”
Arthur reached for the handcuffs dangling from the back of Guinevere’s jacket and grasped them, straddling her waist to keep her on the ground and to keep himself out of a dangerous place in which her knee might just find anything. “Her legs,” he instructed. “Get them tied.’
Lancelot grasped some of the nylon rope that they used for jobs like these, binding her legs as Arthur took her cuffed wrist and attached her to the radiator. “Are we going to need a gag, Lady?” he asked, very politely.
She bucked and let out a fierce scream, one that echoed upwards and into the night sky. Lancelot held over a rag, slightly damp. “Here you are,” he offered. Arthur took it into hand and lightly gagged her, the substance on the rag a mild forgetting agent that Tristan had been perfecting. Arthur hated it, honestly, because it had no morals, but Lancelot was always quick to remind him of their job.
Lancelot waved at Guinevere as he rose to his feet and grabbed Arthur by the hand, giving him a shove along.
Everything stopped when they heard another gunshot.
Arthur and Lancelot both froze in place and even Guinevere seemed to stop struggling. That had come from deep inside the museum, where Galahad, Gawain, and Tristan were supposed to be procuring the Grail.
Arthur caught Lancelot’s gaze and wondered about Tristan, wondered if he had made the wrong call on letting him help. “Run,” he advised, before the both of them took off at top speed through the narrow halls of the museum’s labyrinth-like layout to get back to the Grail itself.
26.
It didn’t take long for Lancelot and Arthur to find their way down the halls, but it was long enough that Tristan had shut down the doors that prevented Dagonet and Bors from finding their way inside, which made the fight a lot more even; if you could consider four against one even, in any way.
Lancelot rounded the corner with alarming speed and skidded to a stop when he saw Tristan holding the Grail in his hand, a gun in the other pointed directly at Galahad’s heart.
“Shit,” Lancelot hissed as he heard Arthur catch up behind him.
Galahad and Gawain both looked to be in poor shape, which was easily seen from even a casual glance their way. Gawain was pressing one hand to Galahad’s shoulder, but the shot had only been a graze. The lion’s share of the blood was coming from Gawain himself, who had been shot in the arm.
It didn’t take a genius for Lancelot to understand that both of those bullets had come from Tristan’s gun and now he had the item they needed and Guinevere was back in the lobby.
“Tristan,” Lancelot growled and no curse seemed good enough for the bile and hatred he wanted to spit forth at this. He settled for the simplest. “You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?”
“I had to get it somehow,” Tristan pointed out. “If that meant borrowing upon your trust…”
“Arthur,” Galahad spat out, all the while keeping an unsteady gun pointed at Tristan. “Can I shoot him?”
“No.”
“You’ve gone insane!” Lancelot accused, the words whipping past his lips with ease now, as if they couldn’t stay quiet. “Perhaps there are three ways for a Knight to go out. Jail, death, or Tristan’s way of insanity!” he snapped, stepping forward, but stopped by the way Tristan so calmly lifted his gun and moved it from Galahad’s heart to Lancelot’s head.
And he wouldn’t miss this time. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate in pulling the trigger.
Lancelot knew that the only thing stopping him from shooting was the fact that he would never get out alive, that Galahad, Gawain, and Arthur (his Arthur) would stop that from ever happening. There were pieces of ceiling drifting down and Lancelot surmised that the third gunshot of the evening from Tristan’s gun had been aimed skywards in an effort to…well, who knew? An attempt to get Galahad to keep quiet, a threat of further violence? Lancelot wasn’t feeling in the mood, really, to be dissecting a madman’s brain. After all, that madman just happened to have a gun pointed in his direction. A thing like that could persuade a man to skip over all the niceties and get straight to the point.
“Tristan,” Arthur spoke quietly, inching to the right slightly, hands in the air and away from his gun. “Let’s talk. There’s absolutely no reason we can’t be civil.”
“He has a gun pointed at Lancelot,” Galahad spat out the words with vitriol as he shoved his mask against Gawain’s wound a little harder, scrabbling to keep as much of it off the floor as possible. With Guinevere so close, Dagonet wouldn’t have much time to clean the place, even if they had all the equipment. If she got loose…
Lancelot didn’t even want to think of that.
“Clearly, none of us see the obvious solution,” Arthur continued to speak, as though Galahad had never said a word.
“The obvious?” Tristan echoed. “The pup pumped me full of tranquilizers and you kept me tied up and now you want to talk,” he said, words thick and low. “Forgive me, Arthur, but my tongue isn’t very loose today. You see, I don’t trust any of you the same as you don’t trust me.”
“There is no reason for that,” Arthur nearly snapped, but coming from him it still sounded as calm as still-waters. “Think, Tristan, think logically. You need it for a ritual and we need it to be sold and provided we do this quickly enough, we can both achieve what we want.”
Now Lancelot was looking at Arthur as though he was the one who’d lost his mind. He could have hissed a dozen things about the value of the piece or the way the police were going to descend on them in an instant flat, considering Guinevere knew it was them and if they found the Grail in Tristan’s possession, that meant game over and that meant many more nights in jail cells. Arthur had to know what he was doing, he wouldn’t just turn them over like that.
And so, Lancelot had faith.
Tristan seemed to be at least listening and he seemed to even be considering Arthur’s words. “How long would I have?”
“Twelve hours to perform your rituals. We’d sell it on the market in the morning,” Arthur negotiated, stepping between Tristan’s gun and Lancelot. “Put that down while we talk, it’s not civil,” he directed.
Instead of doing that, Tristan just shifted the gun to press to Arthur’s temple, whirling him so that he was in a position reminiscent of most hostage situations and just the sight of it made Lancelot’s blood boil to the point that it was a miracle that he hadn’t blown Tristan’s brains out at that point. He took deep, deep breaths. Arthur had a look on his face that Lancelot knew well; knew more than well.
It was the I have a plan look and Lancelot took solace in the fact that Arthur really did have a plan or was lying to comfort the others. Either way, it gave Lancelot the patience to not commit a murder of one of his employees. To their side, Gawain was digging out the fake piece with shaking hands. “One of you, replace the thing,” he directed. “We’ll get blood all over it.”
Lancelot didn’t move. Neither did Tristan. Arthur was incapable of it for the time being and it took another fifteen seconds for Tristan to gesture at Lancelot with the gun. “You do it,” he ordered and it was in those fifteen seconds that everything changed. No sooner were those words out of his mouth, but Arthur had knocked the gun out and had ducked, plunging a fist into Tristan’s thigh.
Tristan staggered backwards and all four men knew that he was armed with knives, further guns, other weapons he could have used against them.
But he just stared at them.
And then he passed out on the floor.
“Did you hit a pressure point I don’t know about?” Lancelot asked Arthur while replacing the Grail precisely the way it should be – it was done by the very best of forgers they could find in London and would at least buy them some time while they got the true Grail off to their buyer.
Arthur opened his palm to reveal a very small syrette that, from the label, appeared to be one of Tristan’s own concoctions.
“I know that,” Galahad spoke up, getting to his feet with a mild amount of trouble. “It’s a variation on Dagonet’s Compound. Five times as powerful, meant for very large men…”
“Or very problematic situations,” Arthur finished his sentence, looking over his shoulder to Tristan on the floor. “Get him tied up, get Gareth to open the doors, and tell Dagonet to clean up this mess,” he directed. “You two,” he said to Gawain and Galahad. “Straight back to Headquarters to get cleaned up and Lancelot and I will take the Grail to be sold straightaway.”
With something as simple as a nod, all of them went about fulfilling their orders and Lancelot didn’t even mind that Arthur was encroaching on his territory and giving the orders. That was mostly because Lancelot was still replaying the last five minutes in his mind.
He had the Grail tucked away and they were hurrying out the back way when he thought it prudent to ask. “You never intended to actually make a deal with him, right?” he asked, unsure of what had been going through Arthur’s mind at that moment.
“We needed time. I bought it for us.”
The relief in Lancelot flooded his face and as he loaded the bag containing the Grail into the car, he felt a kiss against his neck and turned to see Arthur just standing there as he wound his arms around Lancelot’s hips. “What?” Lancelot asked.
“I love you,” Arthur said, very seriously. “For having faith in me. And for not shooting.”
“I love you for staying alive,” Lancelot said pointedly. “Don’t worry me like that, I’m getting precariously close to being in risk of heart attacks, you know.”
Arthur just chuckled as he got in the car and they began their three hour drive to the pre-arranged meeting place at a small little diner in some tiny town that was known for absolutely nothing at all.
27.
The sun had risen and the day had begun as though nothing had changed in the world.
The television at the headquarters was on as reporters talked in worried tones regarding the stolen Grail. There had been various detectives to speak about the possibility of suspects, but not a one of those officers was Guinevere herself, which oddly brought about something of a sick calm, as if ignoring the storm meant it would dissipate. While most of the Knights enjoyed the quiet thrill that came with getting ahead of the law, they all equally knew that having such a bitter enemy was a disaster in the making.
Isolde had been sent home after Dagonet promised that she could do nothing for Tristan. She hadn’t left before swearing at Tristan in Gaelic, slapping him until she was crying and spitting out curses, her fists balling up and the slaps became punches.
No one stopped her. It wasn’t even that they were afraid of what she might do to them (which was a constant worry), it was that each of the Knights thought that Tristan had it coming.
Gareth had taken Galahad and Gawain back to their apartment. They were all patched up and would need no hospital stay, according to the message that Gareth had left on the machine that morning. Gareth sounded shaken, as if he still was in disbelief about what he had done the night before (which had been good work, even Galahad had admitted that).
Bors had the task of finding their buyer and making sure the deal had gone swiftly, seeing as he’d been one of Bors’ own contacts and Lancelot believed in smooth customer relations, if nothing else. He’d insisted on keeping it close to home, seeing as the cause was close to the heart. Lancelot and Arthur had returned from the trade and they had all taken necessary precautions to sever ties between them and the heist, which involved destroying most of the expensive equipment they had used. The very last thing they needed was something to go awry in the final stages of the plan.
That left Dagonet.
Tristan had been secured in the training room with thick ropes and other than Isolde, no one had even attempted to look at him, nor dare to speak a word to his face. Dagonet thought it might have something to do with the fact that they might simply let loose with a gun while the anger still ran so high.
Dagonet found it difficult to be angry any longer. He had felt his fury ebb out of him in his younger days and now found patience a better tactic than rage. Now, with Tristan so volatile, it seemed that he was the only one who was counted on to take care of him. ‘Dispose of him’ had been Lancelot’s exact words, but Dagonet had other plans in mind.
They mostly had to do with vengeance, which he was sure that Tristan would appreciate.
He had been drugged continuously to maintain the dosage that Arthur had given him back in the room at the museum and Dagonet had personally monitored his levels, allowing him to taper off the dose and come around by the time early morning had faded away and the day was upon them.
There was something like icy rage in Tristan’s eyes, but Dagonet couldn’t be scared any longer by the evil that lived in all of them. He had seen the best and worst of people and still believed that they fluctuated between the poles on a daily basis. Tristan would return from that anger, he believed. It would just take time.
“It’s gone, isn’t it.” Tristan’s words were slow and sure, despondent and furious all at once.
“Your chance, Tristan, has been gone more years than you think,” Dagonet agreed, dragging a chair over and sitting opposite of the violent man. He refused to untie him and had kept him on a very low dosage of drugs to render his senses just the slightest bit blurry. After all, they had to take every precaution in these crucial after-hours of the robbery. “Why Dinidan?”
“I loved him.”
“You love Isolde,” Dagonet countered. “You love me. Why Dinidan?”
There was no answer.
Dagonet already knew the answer, but had been hoping Tristan might acknowledge why it was. He had hoped that Tristan would be aware of the reasons, but instead, they sat in the thickness of an awkward silence for many, many minutes.
“They’re asking you to be taken care of,” Dagonet informed Tristan. “You’ll be released from duty as soon as you’re deemed fit enough to be untied. You’ll be staying with me, the arrangements have already been made. I’m taking time away from Bors and Vanora while they go through the treatments.” This was the most Dagonet had spoken in years and that fact wasn’t lost on Tristan, who stared at Dagonet and seemed to be hanging upon his every word. “There are things to be done. But first, why Dinidan?”
“I was a different man back then,” Tristan finally answered.
“I know.”
“I was a better man.”
That was met by a heavy nod from Dagonet – a nod of agreement. Dagonet had never felt the need to lie to his friends, even when the truth was blunt and harsh by the light of day. He could not find the sense in lying to make Tristan feel better and so, he simply didn’t. “There are things to be done,” he spoke quietly, but with enough import to the words that Tristan could understand that Dagonet didn’t simply mean that had to talk or find new items.
There was a task to be done.
“Can you be counted on to work?” Dagonet asked, his palm hovering over the ropes that bound Tristan thickly. His other hand was concealed behind his back and he refused to show it to Tristan. Not yet.
“Probably not.”
“I thought as much,” Dagonet admitted and using the syringe in his concealed hand, he jabbed it and applied slight pressure to allow the liquid within (an extremely strong tranquilizer) to flood through Tristan’s system, rendering him unconscious once more. “It’s why I took precautions.”
Only when Tristan was fully unconscious did Dagonet begin to untie every last thick rope binding him down.
“We have work to do,” Dagonet murmured and carried Tristan in the direction of the parking lot and the waiting car.
tbc
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